Ye Olde Disclaimer / Intro Thing:
Breathing life into my old blog. I was gonna start one anyway, and then this dusty rag popped up. I’m gonna start posting more frequently for my own mental health but I’ve never written about recovery before and anyway I’m just compelled to state that I know a lot of folks are private about theirs, but I can’t be. I have to share, even if no one is interested.
Sometimes I feel a little bit like some of my old bar friends might think I’m arrogant about being sober because I post about it sometimes? Trust me I’m not, and today sucks, so I’m gonna write about it in lieu of indulging because I didn’t have time to pencil a relapse into my schedule today, and whatever it takes to keep this forward momentum, I will do. I’m kinda figuring out that recovery is about learning to be the opposite of arrogant. Writing all about myself seems backwards on that theory.. but, again: Whatever. Gotta do whatever it takes. Gotta ramble. I’m definitely rambling now. This is a giant f*ing post by the way so good luck / beware.
It’s a beautiful Saturday in July in Montana, and I’ve been an irritable, unenthusiastic old sag for five hours.
The only time today I’ve spent being agreeable with my surroundings was between noon and two-ish, when I was napping on my stomach, arms at my sides like a deadened torpedo at the bottom of the ocean.
Today marks 98 Days since I’ve had any alcohol.
Most of those days have gone pretty well. I’ve scooted around the house in a tidy little routine of picking up clutter, maintaining, and it’s felt good, it’s been good, I’ve been good, but I don’t want to write about that shit because I’m not feeling it right now.
This keyboard I’m typing on is about to become a punching bag, and this post is about to become super whiny and complainy to the reader, especially if the reader is having some normal lovely day and taking care of responsibilities, pausing for a measured five minutes to munch carrots and sip sparkling water and be perfect.
I woke up on the wrong side of the litter box and need to take a giant psychic crap on my dusty old blog.
Psychic bidet at the ready..
Having to face reality on bad days that pop up out of nowhere is such a bitch. It’s a beautiful day! What is wrong with me!? Montana has like twelve summertime Saturdays, and I’m wasting a perfectly serene one by skulking around the quiet house wishing I could curl up into a ball, wishing it was February again so at least there’d be a better reason to feel like crap.
I make little collage notecards, and I just got about 30 copies made of different varieties and I got stamps and got change from the bank and I wanted to try and sell them downtown on the outskirts of the Saturday markets.
I got down there and was filled to the brim with anxiety and fear and wound up sitting at a picnic table journaling with my cards out near me, just in case anyone wanted to approach me because I was too panicked to go up to anybody passing by.
Why would I want to try that anyway? Most of the time I can’t wait to avoid people on the street selling stuff and coming up to me. They’ll be like “Are you registered to vote?” “Yah.” (I am.)
But they could also be like “Have you heard of the lord god our savior Skeletor?” And I’d be like “Oh yeah he’s my fave” and just keep walking. Head down. Evade. Whatever.
I’m kneading at the D’OH of this awful day and it’s taking me back to ~Fear and Shame~
I’m ashamed because I spent over $20 on copying cards and getting stamps, and I’m ashamed because I am so broke these days, I really shouldn’t have. I worked on my setup for like 3 hours after work yesterday and spent $27 ordering delivery cuz I was tired, and I really shouldn’t have.
I’m fearful because I need a better paying job at some point, I need health insurance, I need something, anything saved. If I broke a bone or swerved into a ditch or one of my cats got sick, I’d have to ask my family for help and that makes me want to throw up everywhere.
Rehab is not cheap.
I am looking forward to remaining successful in sobriety so I can maintain healthy relationships with my family and myself, but when I have this sort of shitty day I definitely feel like an investment, like my mental health is the return that my folks are gonna get from the whole Treatment thing, and my mental health is not doing great today and the fear / shame thing is just bubbling up and oozing out of me all over the place.
It’s like Ouroboros. Or PacMan. Or Alcoholic.
Facing reality is the last thing I’ve ever wanted to do.
98 Days Sober.
I have a big ol’ notebook full of -isms and mantras I wrote down from group therapy and meetings and stuff. It is super helpful.
A lot of people with over a year or so kept talking about this “pink cloud” they say you float on in early sobriety. I prefer to call it Cloud 9 because I don’t see anything serene about a pink cloud, it reminds me of a polluted sunset, and I think cotton candy is disgusting.
Lately I haven’t been to too many meetings, and I also don’t have a sponsor. Everybody’s like get a sponsor and I’m like I’m fine I don’t feel like it but then everybody’s like I thought I was fine and didn’t need meetings either and god dammit I am just like everyone else.
I felt pretty unique and glow-y and hilarious and creative when I was four drinks deep in under two hours.
I feel like a burlap sack on the edge of tears and blinded by rage and fury at Day 98 Sober.
Pissed at myself for not getting help sooner - I was going through old journals (fuck I have like 70) and I was afraid I was out of control with drinking in 2011. When I was 23 I wrote that I didn’t want to be 30 and wasted and poor. This is what my mother would refer to as a “come to Jesus” moment. I’m kinda calling it a “have a ruined Saturday but then write about it and drink water and do yoga later” moment. Ugh f*ck there’s another whole thing, the religious angle.
Some people in recovery flip over and get hooked on phonics - er, hooked on Jesus. I am side-eyeing the shit out of that. I’ve prayed and meditated and the practices make me feel better but I refer to my god rather as Dear Impeccably Indifferent Universe..
Mental loops and fiery hoops can be absolutely insane.
I have even felt pissed at my family and my closest friends. For the past few years I had been circling the drain with this addiction thing, my neuropathways were fried and frayed and whisky and beer were sabotaging my everyday life.
I felt pissed at other people for not noticing! Well, I must have done a fantastic job masquerading as a somewhat normal person.
I couldn’t ever have just stated, “I’m not ready to get married and I think I need to go into detox / treatment.”
Instead I just thrashed around and circled the drain and almost lost the most precious relationship I have in my life.
Why do people like me do that??
Why couldn’t I just ask for help?
I think it’s because asking for help is so vulnerable and lame and piteous.
But making it this huge horrifying ugly emergency? I’d seriously somehow rather ruin my own life and die than ask for help? Was the downward spiral its own subconscious forcing of the issue?
I’ve learned a lot about how to be vulnerable and honest with myself because I’ve had to.
My #1 coping mechanism is gone. Whisky and beer were there for me when I wanted to relax, cry, celebrate, chill, float the river, gain confidence to sing karaoke, fit in, whatever.
Then ten years later this past March I found myself having a grapefruit White Claw for breakfast, crazy mind rationalizing with a shrug, “I mean it’s pretty much juice..”
Whoo boy okay! I am pooped and I’ve aired it out and cried a bit.
It’s a real thing, man.. At first and for the most part still I’m all “Hooray! Look at me I am sober! I am picking fruit in the backyard, doing great, keeping the house clean, calling my parents more!”
..then on days like today, Day 98, the mirror reflects the horribly ugly person I was when the booze was all I felt I had.
This is why folks are like ~cultivate good habits~.
I can’t afford to be cynical anymore or to shrug off suggestions.. I was so busy rolling my eyes I couldn’t see the ‘right thing’ that was right in front of me.. now I’m rambling.
Maybe I’ve been rambling this whole time.
Again, a lot of people are private about their process and their recovery. I dig that and respect it. I’m just the other type of animal. I have to write. I have to share. I intend to keep it up as I trudge through this awful, terrifying and amazing, lovely, healthy sparkling slog of shit.
